Blackbird 02 - Dead Girls Don't Wear Diamonds (9 page)

"Does it bother you to be seen with me when I look this way?"

"You can wear whatever you like, I guess. Forget I mentioned it, okay?"

"Actually, I'm thinking about somebody else."

He did look at me in the rearview mirror then. "Who?"

"Someone very concerned about appearances."

"Does she dress like you?"

"She was trying, yes."

"Why?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"Maybe she's just weird. Which way you want to go this morning? Interstate or back roads?"

"You decide," I said.

It took a mere twenty-five minutes to reach our destination that morning—a brunch at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

My job might look frivolous to many people, but I had come to take my social engagements very seriously. Sure, I made note of what people wore and what food was served, but I felt my real purpose in covering various philanthropic events was to highlight fund-raising for worthy causes like the arts, social services and other good works—like the zoo— that required private funding to survive. With proper publicity, I knew generous donations begot even more donations. I felt the
Intelligencer's
society column did a public service in the guise of shallow parties and events.

But the museum brunch didn't suit my taste. I walked through the lobby and up the stairs past the statue of Diana with her bow—modeled after Evelyn Nesbit, the girl in the red velvet swing, whose husband shot Stanford White—and went into one of the galleries where a light brunch had been set up. As soon as I saw the crowd, I knew the party invitation hadn't been completely truthful.

The party wasn't a fund-raiser to acquire a painting for the museum gallery. It was an opportunity for the hostess to show off the work of art her ex-husband had been forced—by divorce decree—to give up to. the museum in her name. And even though the first Bloody Marys were just being served, there was a good bit of gloating going on. I made a polite appearance but ignored the buckets of caviar— which might as well have been publicly rubbed in the ex-husband's face. I made my excuses to the hostess and tried to slip out unnoticed.

"Nora! Hi!"

I found my route blocked by Blane and April Mae, two of the ex-wife's snide friends. They had just come out of the ladies' room, decked out in nearly identical Manolo Blahniks and Prada outfits. Not for the first time, I thought to myself that Prada often looks like someone's home economics project gone woefully awry.

"We were just powdering our noses," said April Mae, snapping shut her Chanel compact and pointing to the logo on the lid with one enameled forefinger. "We needed a shot of the Double C."

"This whole thing is too tawdry," said Blane, tucking her own compact into an expensively ugly handbag. "I mean, how many ways can she stick it to her husband?"

April Mae snorted. "Maybe you ought to stick it with her husband, Blaney. Now that you're single and sassy yourself."

Blane, a known sexual predator among the Young Money crowd, laughed breezily. "Oh, I definitely plan to add him to my list."

"But first you have to finish with Yale."

I couldn't help myself. "Yale Bailey?"

Both April Mae and Blane looked at me with blank faces, and it took me a moment to realize they had both been Botoxed into complete facial immobility and couldn't make appropriately surprised expressions.

"You, too?" Blane sounded startled.

"No, I only meant—"

"Listen, I was finished with Yale a couple of months ago, so don't worry about a catfight over him."

"Did he give you a bracelet, Nora?" April Mae began to giggle. "Or did you just get roses?"

My confusion must have been obvious, because Blane explained. "You get a dozen roses from Yale if things get a little too rough. He really doesn't like to leave marks. But you get roses
and
a tennis bracelet if you have to pay a visit to the doctor."

"The doctor?"

"You know. If you need the pill." When I still didn't respond, she added helpfully, "RU-486. The do-it-yourself abortion."

"We don't want any little Baileys running around, do we?" April Mae laughed. "God knows, bracelets are cheaper than child-support payments! You didn't have to get rid of anything, did you, Nora?"

"Oh, no," I said hastily. "I'm not seeing Yale. I never did."

"You must be the only woman in Philly who hasn't been to bed with him, then," April Mae said. "What a slut he is."

"But worth it." Blane let out an appreciative moan. "Once, at least. I am proud to say that I was the one to send
him
roses, though. I mean, I can kick it up a notch, too, if I feel like it."

April Mae trained her expressionless gaze on me again. "I thought you were dating somebody else, Nora. Someone scary from Jersey."

"I'm not dating anyone." I tried to be polite. "What about you, April Mae?"

"Me?" She laughed and waved off the suggestion. "I'm an old married lady. Who can manage it all? I get the kids off to day care, go to my yoga class, take the Escalade for a tune-up, and run a charity meeting all before lunch. Time for love in the afternoon with a schedule like that? I don't think so. Besides, who wants to end up like that Laura Cooper?"

"You mean dead?" Blane asked.

"Not just dead," April Mae replied. "I mean
dead."

"Hold it," Blane snapped. "You think Yale killed her?"

"Well, you said yourself . . ." April Mae allowed her voice to trail off suggestively.

Blane shook her head disdainfully. "It was fun and games, that's all. He's not a psychopath, Ape, just a little twisted. In a good way, of course."

"Hey, Nora, are you okay?"

I said, "I'm sorry. I don't feel very well."

"Shit, were you friends with Laura?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, okay. Because I thought maybe you were
upset for a minute. You knew she was sleeping with Yale Bailey, right?"

"Well, I—"

"That girl was busy," Blane declared. "I haven't seen her in months. I'd like to get a glimpse of her Palm Pilot, though. Working a job, all those Cooper family commitments, plus a guy like Yale three afternoons a week, if I know anything about him."

I said, "Will you excuse me? I need some air."

"Sure." Blane called after me, "Hey, get us a mention in Kitty's column, huh, Nora?"

I fled outside in search of fresh air to clear my head, pushing through the front doors and staggering out onto the museum steps where Rocky did his victory dance. I didn't feel remotely victorious. The roses in Laura's bedroom, I thought. I'd assumed they'd come from her husband.

My head cleared when I saw who was waiting for me outside.

"Hey," said Detective Benjamin Bloom. "Are you all right?"

"Detective Bloom." I stepped into the sunshine and breathed deeply.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm okay. Just light-headed for a second."

He started to touch my arm, but thought better of it and shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his black trench coat instead. "Do you have a few minutes? Can we take a walk?"

Reed wasn't due to return for an hour, so I agreed. I was glad to put some distance between myself and the Botox Babes. A brisk breeze snatched at our coats as we strolled down the museum's back steps towards the stretch of the river where the famous boat-houses stood. A pair of Rollerbladers flew past us,
heading for Fairmount Park. A couple with a baby carriage sat on one of the benches, sharing a bagel and a coffee. A happy couple with no bruises, just a beautiful child.

"Take it easy," Bloom said when my strides lengthened. "This isn't a race."

"Sorry."

"You really okay?"

"Yes, fine. I suppose I can figure out why you're here." We slowed to a meander along the sidewalk. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I phoned the newspaper."

"You can call my home, you know."

He hadn't changed since the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder when I'd first met him in the line of duty. He had a young, elongated face and old, soulful eyes. With a lanky build and a dark shock of
Leave it to Beaver
hair that fell boyishly across his forehead, his Joe Friday seriousness seemed incongruous. It didn't help that he always wore very large white sneakers and acted like he had never learned how to talk to girls.

Okay, maybe Michael Abruzzo was too much for me. Too big, too demanding, too overtly the sexual animal. Detective Ben Bloom seemed . . . manageable. I sometimes found myself wishing he would come throw pebbles at my bedroom window late at night.

During the investigation of Rory Pendergast's murder, I'd learned that underneath his mild manners. Bloom was actually an ambitious cop who was willing to bend as many rules as necessary to get his career out of a sleepy suburban police department and into the excitement of a big-city homicide division.

"Am I going to be interrogated?" I asked lightly.

"I thought we could have a conversation. You know, just friends."

I sent him a look.

"Okay," he amended. "Let's talk about Laura Cooper."

I said, "I heard about Laura's death yesterday. And I read this morning's papers. I can't believe such a vital woman would kill herself."

"I can't believe it, either," he said.

I glanced at his face. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I'm always serious about murder."

"The papers say it was suicide."

"It's not open and shut." He walked a few more yards before adding, "Because of Oliver Cooper's connection to the White House, our department's been cut out by the FBI. I'm just asking around a little. You know, to make sure all the bases are covered."

He had learned to put a better spin on his Lone Ranger activities, I noticed. "You're on your own, is that it?"

"Right. Nothing official. We heard you had a little scene at the Cooper party Friday night."

"A little scene was exactly that—little. It was a misunderstanding," I said. "I had been talking with her husband. We're old friends and we were—"

"—in the bathroom together," he finished for me. "Yes, we heard about that, too."

I felt myself flush. "It was perfectly innocent, Detective. Laura and I had a conversation afterwards, and I apologized. She understood that what happened was completely innocent."

"Okay," he said.

I decided that further defense of my honor was going to sound fishy, so I said, "Laura was angry, but she was hardly suicidal that night. I thought she was more in a mood to murder someone else, in fact, not hurt herself."

"Who did she want to murder?"

"It was a figure of speech. I only meant—"

"Who was she angry with? Besides you, that is."

"Her husband," I said before thinking about how I was delivering my friend into the hands of the police. "I mean, she was angry with Flan, but hot furious. Not really."

"Have you been seeing Mr. Cooper socially?"

I met his eye. "Flan and I were not having an affair, if that's what you're asking."

He shrugged. "Okay. Tell me what you know about Laura Cooper's life. What did she do with her time? Who were her friends?"

"I don't know."

Bloom shot me another look. "Did she have a reputation for doing anything in particular?"

"You mean her work? She was a part-time designer for a contractor, but that's all I know." I looked at him suspiciously when he didn't respond. "What are you asking? Which clubs she belonged to? Or something else?"

He shrugged. "There was a rumor."

I stopped walking and waited for him to face me.

He did. His soulful eyes didn't look so soulful anymore. "A
rumor about things she did."

I didn't respond. Maybe I was attracted to Bloom because he felt safe. But at that moment, he wasn't feeling safe in the least.

"Dammit, Nora," he said. "Do I have to pull your teeth?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I
talked to a friend in Philadelphia Vice. Apparently, there have been suspicions that Laura Cooper stole things. Jewelry. Trouble is, the people who complain suddenly get amnesia when the real investigation starts."

"Well, did you look inside Laura's jewelry box?"

"The FBI did. They didn't find anything. Of course, Laura Cooper probably knew better than to hide stolen goods with her personal jewelry. Look, if I could find somebody whose stuff had been stolen by Laura Cooper, it might prove that her murder doesn't involve Oliver's appointment. The case would become a local matter again."